Steele A Challenge
by RSteele82
Summary: (Steamy) The Delanian case is a wrap, and Laura and Remington steal away to Catalina.
1. Chapter 1

Laura

Mr. Steele and I arrived in Catalina early in the evening. Just as he'd alluded to when he'd first mentioned taking the trip, he was a skilled pilot. I don't know why I was surprised. After all, I'd had a firsthand glimpse at those very skills last year during the Dumont case.

This time, Thank God, he didn't leave me at the controls while he bailed out.

I'd written off our trip to Catalina as a lost cause after Bernard, Mildred's nephew, had unwittingly dropped a case in our laps – or rather, Mr. Steele's tub – in the form of the body of Harold Delanian. It had been a quick case, taking less than a day to wrap, and relatively painless, all things considered.

Relatively.

With no cases left on our desks, when Mr. Steele suggested we reattempt the previously aborted trip, he hadn't needed to nudge me in the least. I made a beeline out of the Agency doors with him right on my heels. I wasn't about to take a chance something else would come along to prevent us from enjoying this time together. Lesson learned.

We dined at a quaint, waterfront restaurant, indulging our appetites with oysters on the half shell, a salad of crisp greens and a main course of prawn linguine. After, we strolled along the shoreline of the beach, then had sat watching the bright stars twinkling in the inky sky. There are no stars in Los Angeles, the fog and lights of the city obscuring them, so the sight was truly something to behold.

We sat there long enough for the night air to grow cool, but the temperature had nothing to do with the shivers that would course down my spine, or the goosebumps that raised on my skin. Mr. Steele was solely to blame for those.

Not that I wasn't a willing participant. I was, very much so. The man knows how to kiss, how to enflame my senses when he wishes to do so, and he certainly wished to do exactly that tonight. The soft urgency of his full lips against mine, his intoxicating flavor, the whispering stroking of his fingers against my neck, my sides, leaves me staggering and I am ready to toss caution to the wind.

So I am thrown completely off balance when his lips suddenly leave mine and he gets to his feet, holding a hand out to me.

"It's getting a bit chilly."

His breath is short as he speaks, telling me he is affected as I am by our recent shenanigans. So what's the deal? I wonder, as I lay my hand in his and he pulls me to my feet. I sure as hell know it's not the weather, because I'm feeling _very, very_ warm.

I briefly flirt with the idea of turning the tables on him: The intended seduced becoming the seducer instead. Briefly. Almost immediately I cast the idea aside, as my one attempt at seducing him had been not only an unmitigated disaster, but had wholly insulted him.

* * *

" _ **You decided, without discussion, that we were finally going to consummate our relationship."**_

 _ **"Well, isn't that what you wanted?"**_

 _ **"Yes, but I'd like to have some small say in the matter."**_

* * *

Six months later, I mentally bop myself in the head. It's not the first time, I've done so. What had I been _thinking?_

Parity. He craves it, both at work and in our personal relationship, and can become downright testy when he believes it to be lacking. Oh, for the most part, he allows me one up on him at the office, so long as he's amused by it and not feeling particularly petulant. It is, after all, _my_ Agency.

It hadn't occurred to me _that night_ in Cannes, that when it came to our personal relationship he'd stand for nothing less. I'd blindsided him that night at the hotel. There had been no dinner, no dancing, no talking quietly before the fire, sharing kisses and caresses, then naturally easing past that line at the bedroom door. I'd simply decided…

* * *

" _ **Tonight's the night!"**_

* * *

Even worse, I announced my intentions to Mildred before him. Thank God he'd never found out _that_ little detail or the explosion between us on the streets of Cannes would have been nuclear as opposed to merely scorching.

 _What was I thinking?_

He hadn't been at all flattered or amused when I'd flung myself at him. It took me weeks after that night to admit to myself that he'd been stony in my arms as I'd kissed him, that his voice had been cool, detached to the point of disinterested. I think he was relieved, in a way, that Joelle had surprised us when we'd walked into his room.

I hadn't given any consideration to what he wanted… or, far worse, to what he needed. Had it been any other man, I would have accused him of falling victim to the caveman mentality of a man being the sexual aggressor. But I know better. That's not the case with my Mr. Steele. He's what some might call a 'throw back,' a man driven toward romance… a man driven to romance _me._

And after years of waiting, he'd settle for nothing less.

Which takes me full turn: _What's the deal?_

A lovely dinner. Check. A romantic stroll on the beach. Check-check. Making out on the beach beneath a blanket of stars above us. Check-check-check.

So why had he backed away.

I can ask myself the same question a hundred times, but in truth, I already know the answer to the question. While he likes to pretend otherwise, I'm not the only one hesitant to cross that line into the bedroom. There have been times I have stepped closer, only for him to pull away. I'm not the only one who needs something in order for us to move forward, he does as well.

"I was thinking we might enjoy a fire, watch a bit of television?" He tugs at his ear while he speaks, drawling a flicker of my eyes. He's nervous. I can't help my smile, which makes him pull at the lobe again. "I could order us up a nice bottle of wine?"

Wine, yes. Wine might be exactly what we need.

"Sounds lovely," I tell him.


	2. Chapter 2

Remington

I haven't the foggiest idea what's gotten into me, but that's not exactly surprising when it comes to Laura. One moment her willing, pliant body is in my arms and I'm savoring her lips at my leisure, then the next I pull away. Given the way she'd blinked those brown eyes of hers, it was a given I'd confused her as much as myself.

As I take her hand in mine and pull her to her feet, I mentally sigh. Nothing new there either.

That's the thing with Laura and I. Unsure of where I stand with her, I can never quite find my footing. I know she wants me as a lover as much as I do her, that's clear enough. It's the rest of it that leaves me baffled and bumbling around far too often for my taste. In my gut, I know if we cross that line into the bedroom before she is truly ready, she'll freeze me out for good. And that runs contrary to what I need: To know, without question, that she is mine and mine alone.

It's utterly absurd how badly I long for that, to be able to look across the room at her, across the office… across my bed… and to know without equivocation that she is mine. That she has chosen me above all the other blokes I've watched sniff about her over the years… and the ones that one day will do the same. All those blokes who are far more worthy than I of earning her enduring affection. Bankers. Lawyers. Financial brokers. Educated men. Respectable men.

Men who'd never be able to keep up with her, and in the end would try to quash her spirit, much as that bugger Jeffries had done.

Two years later, I still can't believe he lamented the very parts of her that I find simply… beguiling.

When she slips up and sets those parts of herself she's locked up free, that is. Occasions which, believe me, are very rare.

I realize we've both been silent for some time, and rack my brain in search of something to say.

"I was thinking we might enjoy a fire, watch a bit of television? I could order us up a nice bottle of wine?"

She smiles that smile that says she knows something I may not. My eyes narrow on her…

"Sounds lovely."

The thought flits away as quickly as it has arrived, to be replaced by some self-flagellation. I curse my inability with words, at least those which express sincere emotion; my past which makes her afraid to let me in; the mistakes I have made on my path to becoming Remington Steele; … my inability to provide her what she seems to need in order to believe, to let us have this – my name.

I hold open the door to our suite and extend an arm.

"After you," I invite.

"Thank you."

That's right. Our suite. 'Separate but equal', it's always been one of our mottos, right along with the equally distasteful 'business before pleasure'. Frankly, I'm amazed she didn't display a bit of temper when she discovered we'd be sharing a common living area, but to her credit, she'd merely peered into identical master suites, and had carried her small suitcase and overnight bag into the one to the right.

Point made. Despite my hopes that my fantasies of her inquiring which of the rooms we'd like to claim as ours might become a reality, it remained just that: a fantasy. Status quo holds firm.

Separate but equal. I mentally sigh again, as I pick up the receiver and dial the number the phone proclaims is for room service. With barely a 'hello' I'm placed on hold. That's fine by me, as I'm quite content watching as Laura swings open the French doors leading to the modest balcony, then flicks a switch that makes flames dance across the gas logs in the fireplace. She retrieves the remote from on top of the television and sets it on the coffee table. One might think she'd executed this routine a hundred times before…

And she has, as nights such as these have become commonplace for us over the years.

"I think I'll take a quick shower," she announced when she stands before me. Before I can utter a syllable in reply, she presses up on her tiptoes and touches her lips to mine, her open eyes meeting mine. Then, like the wind, before I can even reciprocate the gesture, she is gone and her bedroom door closes behind her with a quiet snick.

A sharp pang of need twangs in my belly. Also, familiar, yet growing in its intensity as time wears on and we continue to play this cat-and-mouse game of ours.

I order us a nice bottle of white wine, one that lends itself to the fruity side, as Laura prefers in the evenings along with a couple of plates of something for her to nibble upon. Then, with time on my hands and not wishing to begin watching a movie without her, I decide a shower isn't such a bad idea – rather appealing, actually.

For a split second I am tempted to knock on Laura's bathroom door and ask if she might like company. But I think better of it. I have not a single doubt if I were to do so, within ten minutes she'd be occupying a single room and planning her escape from the island at morning light.

I strip quickly, not wishing to miss room service should they arrive sooner than expected. As I step under the sharp spray of hot water, my body may not be with Laura but my mind is. I laugh quietly. Also fairly routine, for she's rarely far from my thoughts.

Laura ending things as she did in Cannes forced me to face certain truths. Firstly, I no longer quite know how to live my life without her in it… nor do I care to learn. For the first two years of our association, I had deluded myself into believing I could pick up and leave as I'd always done, never looking back. I'd nearly gone quite mad with loneliness, frustration… fear that she'd allow another man to claim her as his before she forgave me, permitted me just one more chance to get it right.

Secondly, I could no longer deny, even to myself, that I'd fallen hard for the woman. I was deeply, abidingly… madly in love with her. So much so that there is only one thing that could ever make me leave: Her giving herself to another. To watch that, to know that I'd never quite measured up, would be more than I could bear.

Merely the thought has sent my heart racing. I can't let that happen. She's simultaneously brings my soul peace while setting my heart free to soar. I've come to believe with all that I am that we were meant to find one another, that it was providence's way of setting right all the misdeeds done to us both.

Turning off the shower, I reach for a towel, drying off as I wander into my room. What to wear? It seems my life is fraught with potential hazards when it comes to Laura. Although we've shared accommodations in the past and are quite familiar – and comfortable – with one another in nightclothes, this is a wholly new situation as we are not here for business but purely for pleasure. In the end, I compromise: A pair of silk lounge pants paired with my favorite t-shirt.

Yes, I own such an item. Several of them as a matter of fact, worn in private as they do not at all suit the image of Remington Steele, which she and I have worked so hard to cultivate.

I putter about the living room, nervously awaiting Laura's appearance, anticipating it even. Seeing her for the first time of a morning is my favorite part of each day. With her guard not yet fully up, she can't hide the glimmer of happiness that shows in her eyes at her first glimpse of me. It warms me, gives basis to my hopes that somehow we can make a go of it…

And that somewhere behind all those walls, she may believe that as well.

I turn, lifting my hand to gnaw at my thumbnail, when I hear the slight rattle of the doorknob to her room. It is her eyes that I notice first, full of warmth as they first land upon my face, then – being the observant woman she is – her eyes quickly flit over the rest of me as my eyes do the same over her slim form. With a great deal of relief, I realize she is wearing her lone silk robe, and a pair of satin pajamas beneath. In dress, we are equal. The approval I see in her eyes for my chosen attire lifts my lips in a smile.

Our heads turn as one towards the door when a knock on it sounds. I take it upon myself to answer, sign the check, whilst adding a healthy tip for the young man delivering our repast. Laura eyes the cart with open curiosity as the door to the suite closes.

"I took the liberty of ordering fruit and cheese plates as well," I inform her, then can't help but to tease her a bit as I work the cork on the wine, "Given I'm well aware of your inability to watch a movie without a bit of something tasty nearby." I lift a brow at her, as I begin to fill our glasses.

"I might enjoy a few nibbles on something." There's an unfamiliar gleam in her eyes, a salacious one at that. I miss the glass I am filling, and the cool wine dribbles down my hand. I'm stunned. If it were any woman but Laura who'd spoken those words, I'd know a trip to the bedroom was a foregone conclusion.

Any other woman _but_ Laura, I remind myself. I give her a quick smile.

"Well, then I suppose it's good thing I got you a little something to assuage your appetite, hmmm?"

"Wonderful," she agrees.

Why is it that she sounds as though she doesn't find that wonderful at all?


	3. Chapter 3

Laura

There wasn't much to choose from on the television, not at this hour, at least. _Dial M for Murder_ or _Pillow Talk._ Mr. Steele voted vociferously for _Dial M for Murder_ , but tonight I know my vote will be the one that counts, and I am feeling the tiniest bit priggish that he didn't pick up on my hint a short time before, and decide I want to make him squirm… purely for my own amusement, of course.

We've seen _Pillow Talk_ on one prior occasion and from what I recall it revolves around Rock Hudson as a sweet talking lothario, who has a string of women floating through his life - and his bed - and Doris Day, a professional woman irritated to no end by the playboy whom hogs their party line. Hudson, determined to add Day to his long list of conquests, assumes another identity with the intent of charming her into his bed, and nothing more. By the conclusion of the movie, Day has managed to wed him, bed him and make him a father.

The squirming starts early on, as Hudson uses renditions of the same song, convincing each dazzled bimbo that he wrote the song just for them. But only ten minutes into the movie, I find an opening to take my first off-handed shot at him, when a representative from the phone company appears on Hudson's doorstep to investigate his misuse of the party line. That representative, of course, being a woman.

" _What would you like to inspect?"_

" _You."_

"Why do I think some variation of that line has been used on you any number of times? And that you've taken advantage of it?" I muse aloud. I'm laying on my back on the sofa, my feet in his lap as he massages them, my eyes seemingly glued to the television, although I see him grimace out of the side of my eye.

"Lau-ra," he answers in that half-whine, half-admonishment tone he tends to use when I am making him uncomfortable. I turn my head and look at him with wide-eyed innocence.

"Am I wrong?" I challenge, smiling when he winces. He won't lie to me. Dance around the question, maybe, but not outright lie.

"Even if that were the case," he points a finger at me and bestows me with a stern face, "And I'm not saying that it was, it's in the past." Releasing my foot, he crosses his arms and frowns at the television. Oops. It's a tactical error on my part. I'd meant to prick, not to wound. I sit up and scoot forward. Legs still slung over his lap, I lay my head on his shoulder. A silent apology. One that's accepted, given the way he embraces me with one arm.

Only a few minutes later his chest begins to shake and he laughs low in his throat.

" _I have no bedroom problems. There's nothing in my bedroom that bothers me."_

"Now why is it—" he begins, silencing when I jab him with an index finger.

"Be careful, buster," I warn, tipping my head back and scowling at him. He considers my current position an invitation to kiss me. Who am I to argue?

Damn, the man can kiss. Have I mentioned that before? From a quick brush of his lips against mine in friendship to a full lipped caress in a nod to either feeling tender towards me or reminding me of the constancy of his attraction to me to those kisses with a harder edge even as he tries to restrain his passion out of respect for me. No matter, how he kisses me, I can't be unaffected, despite my occasion vows to be just that.

Now, given our time spent on the beach, electricity flows through my veins, jolting me to my core. Heat spread over my skin. I shift in his arm, wanting to a better connection. He cups the back of my head and when my lips eagerly open to him, his tongue slips inside my mouth to tangle with mine. With a soft groan of approval, his arm tightens around my waist, pressing me nearer. I'm not even sure he's aware he's doing so, as normally he allows me to choose to move closer… or not, permitting me to set the boundaries.

When his lips leave mine for the briefest of moments, he mumbles my name. A single word colored with so many emotions: tenderness, need, desire…reverence, even.

I shift in his arms again with a small moan of my own, but he's still not close enough. Instinctively, I swing a leg fully over his, and as I wrap my arms around his neck, burying my hand in his hair, I settle gently in his lap.

In an instant, he jerks his mouth from mine and turns still as a statue. Confused, strained eyes flicker back-and-forth over my face. I've never been this bold with him, and by the slightly panicked look on his face he is fighting to restrain himself and wondering how long he can possibly do so.

I know what it is he needs to move ahead. An expression of faith. A promise. That in the deepest recesses of my heart, there will be no regrets. I need only to say it.

I thread my fingers through his hair, cupping his head in my hands, examining at length his face and eyes,

" _Hold me tight  
Kiss me right  
I'm yours tonight.  
My darling,  
Possess me.  
Tenderly,  
Breathlessly,  
Make love to me…"_

Doris Day sings in the background, as his eyes lose some of their light. He begins to move, his hands dropping down to clasp my hips, preparing to move me away to a safer distance.

I bring a hand to his cheek, caressing it, capturing his undivided attention as his hands still on my hips, watching me, waiting.

Then I say what I have finally come to believe.

"Remington…"

Then he is all motion.


	4. Chapter 4

Remington

I'm convinced Laura must be able to feel the pounding of my heart when I drag her to me and envelope her in a crushing embrace.

 _Remington…_

I know she feels my body quake at just the memory of her lovely, lilting voice privately calling me by the name for the first time in our association – legitimately so, without a trace of sarcasm to be found. As much as I enjoy hearing 'Mr. Steele' cross her lips, that particular name means she at long last sees me as the man I have become, the man I wish to be.

And none of it would have been possible without her.

I pepper small kisses across her lip, nip gently at it, as I alter my position. I inhale sharply, when our lips fully merge again and her tongue slips between my lips. My hands clench her back reflexively and I can't stop the brief groan of pleasure that rises from my throat. Only once before has she kissed me in such a way – in the wine cellar of a monastery – and then the earth had moved beneath my feet. Thank God, I'm seated now, for between her tongue exploring my mouth and the hands caressing my head and neck, I might well have found my legs couldn't sustain me should I have been standing.

Her mouth leaves mine to lay a trail of gentle nips and supple kisses along my jaw on the way to my ear. I allow my head to fall against the back of the couch and close my eyes, savoring the rare display of tender affection. My hand slides up her back and tangles in her hair.

"I want you, Remington," she whispers near my ear. I flinch as the pleasure her words brings streaks through me. "Do you want me?" A silly question if ever there's been one. I have wanted the woman from the first time our eyes met in what is now my office.

"Always, Laura," I answer, sucking in a sharp breath when she draws my earlobe into her mouth and rims it with her tongue. Shivers course over my skin when the cooler air hits the warmed skin as her mouth moves away.

"So we're in agreement?" she presses, as her mouth moves down my neck, and a hand sneaks under the hem of my t-shirt. My stomach muscles jump at the feel of her hand against my bare skin.

"Full agreement." I gasp when both her hands gather the hem of my shirt, then tug it upwards. "There's just one thing…" I feel her breath when she huffs with frustration.

"Of course there is," sighs, crossly. Her hands leave my shirt and she sits back on my lap, brows drawn together. I chuckle as I ease her off my lap then stand, holding out a hand to her. With a questioning look, she lays her hand in mine and allows me to pull her to her feet.

Then laughs, breathily, when I bend over, and with an arm beneath her knees, lift her into my arms.

"We've waited far too long to consummate this relationship," I tell her as I carry her toward the bedroom. "And if I can't have you in my bed, I at the very least want you in a bed." Her lips find my neck again and I stumble step, caught off by the unexpectedness of the action. Her delighted laughter heats my blood further.

"Are you saying we need more room, Mr. Steele?" There's a teasing quality to her voice that makes me smile.

"Undoubtedly, Miss Holt," I confirm. I release her legs when we stand beside the bed, and she slowly slides down my body until her feet land on the plush carpeting.

Then the reality of what we are about to do becomes very… very… real and we grow still where we stand.


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: This chapter contains NC-17 Material. IF under 18 or uncomfortable with this subject matter, please continue to chapter 7.**_

* * *

Laura

I am the first to move. With deliberate purpose, I tug on the belt of my robe, and when the sash falls loose I shrug the robe off. As it drops to the floor, I reach for the hem of his shirt, and gathering the material in my hands I lift it upwards, grateful when he automatically bends forward enough to allow me to free him of it.

Then my hands are, at long last, free to explore. The time for only looking, admiring, has come to an end. I step close and close my eyes, then draw my fingers over his stomach, then upwards through the deliciously dense whorls of hair on his chest then over his collarbone. I hold one of his shoulders to keep my balance, as I press up on my toes and lay a string of kisses along the base of his neck, pausing at his collarbone to taste him. His head falls forward, and he traces the tip of his tongue along my shoulder, bared by the camisole top of my pajamas, leaving sparks in the wake of his ministrations.

Taking me at my word that there will be no second thoughts on this night, he slides his hands under my top, and with his thumbs hooking the hem, shimmies it over my head then the arms I raise them for him to remove it. His eyes wander over my shoulders, my breasts then stomach.

"You're even more stunning than I imagined, Laura," he tells me, breathily, before he pulls me close and seals his mouth to mine.

As we kiss, I take the liberty to explore him freely, as I've yearned to do for years. I'm no stranger to the sight of his bare torso. We have, after all, shared accommodations many times over the years. But this is the first time I've allowed myself the freedom to give into my desires, to openly explore my curiosity, to touch, to discover the nuances of his lean frame. His stomach muscles jump when I caress his abdomen, he shifts ever so slightly away from my hand on the right side of his waist. He's ticklish. How had I not known that? I wonder. The thought amuses me, and I return to that spot often, teasing him. My fingernails scrape lightly over the nubbins of his chest, make his back arch, his body shudder. Fingertips dragged whisper soft up his back, make him inhale sharply and scatter goosebumps over his skin.

And a hand slid beneath the waistband of his lounge pants so that I can cup a firm cheek of his bum then knead it, has him ripping his mouth away from mine with a gasp of my name. Panting, he leans his forehead against my shoulder, clutching me to him, as I ease the waistband of his pants over his hips and they fall to the floor. Wasting no time, my hand skims over his hip then downwards and I grasp his erection softly in my hand. He jerks almost violently at the feeling of his shaft being cradled in my hand.

"Dear God," he groans, "Not yet, Laura."

I barely have time to note the size and weight of him, when he brushes my hand away, and before I know it, I am flat on my back on the bed, my own pajama bottoms having disappeared along the way. He wastes no time, settling between my legs and palming one of my breasts in one hand while leaning down and drawing the nipple of the other into his mouth. With a moan from deep in my throat, my back arches and my hands dive into his hair holding his head to me, as the incredible sensations he is creating with mouth, tongue and teeth, drag me under in a sensual miasma. Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of my mind, I realize he's positioned himself in such a way that his heavy shaft is laying against the sensitive bundle of nerves between my legs. Instinctively, I lift my hips and grind against him.

"Remington," I gasp, hoping he will understand in that single word what it is I need. He groans against my breast, but somehow has the presence of mind to move, laving my breasts with his mouth, tweaking the other peak with his fingers, while grinding against me, establishing a rhythm that will quickly give me what it is I yearn for.

It doesn't take much. I have wanted him for a long, long time. His mouth on me, his long fingers caressing me, the hair of his chest tickling my skin, the weight of his body on mine, and his scent surrounding me are a heady mix. My legs wrap around his, my back arches and I shatter, my body shuddering blissfully, while he continues to move and I call out his name, again and again.

It is only when the last quiver leaves my body that I open my eyes to find him staring down at me. He palms my cheek in his hand.

"So much more beautiful than I ever imagined," he murmurs, bending down to touch his lips to mine.

When I shift beneath him to drag my fingers down his back, I inadvertently grind my hips against him. His body twitches and when his lips leave mine, I glimpse the strain around his eyes, the desperation in them. Despite his best efforts to prolong this for me, he's barely clinging to his self-control. Fortunately for him, I'm in no mood to prolong the niceties. I want to feel his body buried in mine, to feel him moving within me. _Now._

I shove at his shoulders, and he rolls to his back, fear that I'm going to call it quits now joining that desperate look in his eyes. _Silly man._ There's no way I'm stopping now. That look quickly changes to relief when I sling my leg over his hips and carefully lower myself down, straddling his hips and shifting until his shaft is cradled within my folds. As I bend down to kiss him, my entire body twitches when the tip of his penis comes in direct contact with my clit. I pant for a second, as he grins up at me, understanding instantly what has affected me so. I cover his lips with mine and kiss that smile away. Supporting my body weight on one arm, I reached between us and take him in hand, guiding him toward where we both need him to be.

A pair of hands grab at my hips with a viselike grip as he rips his mouth away from mine.

"Condom," he puffs, insistently. "Overnight bag." Almost against his will, his hips thrust upwards, the head of his shaft piercing my opening ever so slightly. I groan aloud.

"Pill." I manage to force the word out. I am beginning to shake from the need to feel him inside of me, and search his face as he seems to grapple with a decision. He visibly relaxes beneath me as he comes to his decision, and releasing my hips from his hands, presses up on an elbow. Palming one of my breasts, he draws its puckered peak into his mouth as I sink down on him, taking him a couple of inches inside before I freeze.

My body quakes and I suck in a sharp breath, as he falls back to the bed with a deep, guttural moan which sounds like my name. It's been nearly six years and he's considerably larger than the men I've been with before. I breathe in short breaths, as I concentrate on relaxing my muscles around him. His hands clench the sheets and his eyes are rounded as he battles against the urge to thrust himself further inside of me. It takes a minute, but then, flattening my palms against his abdomen for balance, I rise up until only the engorged head of his penis remains inside of me, then sink down again, taking more of him inside. On the fourth time, he slides in to the hilt. Impossibly full of him, I fall forward, bracing myself on hands against his shoulder and lean down to kiss him.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: This chapter contains NC-17 Material. IF under 18 or uncomfortable with this subject matter, please continue to chapter 7.

* * *

Remington

Never in a thousand fantasies had I come close to imagining the bliss of finding myself cradled within Laura's body. Her heat scorches me, her wetness is like warm silk, and her inner muscles hold me firmly within her depths. I realize now, it would have been impossible to imagine the effect she would have on me. Her scent surrounding me, the tips of her breasts brushing against my chest, the feeling of her breath against my skin – all of it threatens to unravel the fragile hold I have over my body and I fear I'm going to lose it like an untried youth.

I clench my jaw and wrap my hands in the sheet of the bed when she begins to move. Her body has revealed its secrets to me, her initial discomfort telling me it's been a long while since last she was last with a man. I take solace in knowing I haven't been walking the road of abstinence alone. Perhaps, as I'd once hoped, it had been for her as it had been for me: For years, no one but Laura in my bed would suffice. Only one time, these last years, had I been tempted to take another woman to bed: In those months after Cannes when the loss of Laura's presence in my personal life had begun to eat me whole and a willing, eager woman had stepped into my hotel room.

Not for the first time, I give thanks that an intruder in Laura's adjoining room prevented me from following through. As I stare into her lovely brown eyes, now, as she hovers above me, I know with absolute clarity that such a liaison would not only have been wholly disappointing, but I would have been left awash with guilt, feeling as though I'd somehow betrayed her.

She cries out when she finds the perfect position, one that allows my shaft to caress that most sensitive point within her, while maximizing my pleasure as well. One of my hands wanders away from the bed sheets to find her breasts, teasing the sensitive peaks without mercy, making her periodically squeak. I begin thrusting my hips with her as she moves, off-beat at first, but only a few strokes in, I follow her rhythm here as easily as I do in our work. It's to our benefit, I think, that we know each other so well.

She shifts again, taking me deeper with each thrust. Her damp hair falls around my face as her hand searches the bed for mine. I help her find it, and twine my fingers with hers. Her knees tighten against my hips, telling me she is near. _Thank God._ I'm not sure I can hold out much longer myself. My free hand leaves her breast. I tangle my hand in her hair and drag her head downwards, wanting to taste. In an instant, she moans into my mouth and I feel every nuance of her bliss as her muscles clench down on my shaft, drawing me further in, as they flutter and tighten about me. It's too much and what tenuous control I'd managed to hold on to evaporates, her body dragging mine into the heavens with her.

For long minutes after, as her body calms, she lays atop me, our bodies still connected. Then, with a press of her lips against my neck and a twitch of her hips, I slip free of her. She stretches once, then with a hand resting against my chest, her body curled against my side, she sleeps.

I take her hand in mine, and positioning our clasped hands over my heart, close my eyes. The last thought I have before succumbing to sleep is: Please don't run.

I don't think I could bear it if she did.


	7. Chapter 7

Laura

I have no idea how long I've slept, yet I know before I ever open my eyes exactly where I am. Mr. Steele's scent is as familiar to me as my own. Quietly, I slip my hand from his then ease away from his side and out of bed. Picking my robe up from floor where I'd let it drop, I slip it on and tie the sash. I wander across the suite to my room, where I take the time to clean up a little, brush my hair and teeth then stop in the living room. Returning the plates of crackers and fruit to the room service cart, I open the door to the suite, and roll the cart into the hallway. Now the wine? The wine, we'll keep.

When I walk back into the bedroom, I find Mr.—Remington lying on his back with an arm slung over his eyes. The clinking of the wine glasses as I set them on the bedside table has him dropping his arm to look at me. I cock my head to the side and gnaw my lower lip, considering the emotions that cross his face, before he can plaster on a smile. Disbelief then relief, I interpret. Is it possible he's worried he might wake the morning after to find himself alone as I have? I set the idea to dwell on later.

For now, I want to savor this evening… and him.

I hold the glasses and the bottle wine up in display.

"I thought we might enjoy a glass of wine." His smile widens as he pushes himself up into a sitting position, then grabs my pillow and shoves it behind him. He tugs the sheet up over his hips as he lounges against the headboard.

"A splendid idea," he commends.

I glance at the clock and am surprised to see it's after one-thirty in the morning. We slept longer than I thought, I muse, as I pour us each a glass of wine and hand him one. I sit in the center of the bed, facing him, tucking my legs to the side.

"Any regrets?" he asks, with a lift of his brows. He takes a sip of the wine. I purse my lips and tip my head to the side as though seriously mulling the question. He lifts his hand to gnaw at his thumbnail, anxiously awaiting my answer. Maybe I was right, after all, that he, too, had worried crossing that line might be the catalyst that brought about the end. There it was, the relief in his eyes again, when I smiled and gave him a single, adamant shake of my head.

"Not a one. You?" I take a sip of my wine as I wait for his answer, which is quick to follow.

"Only that it took us so long to get here." He swirls the wine in his glass, studying it, then me, then his glass again. Lifting it to his lips, he takes a drink as his blue eyes land on me and stay. "Uh, Laura, not that I wish to look the proverbial gift horse in the mouth, but…"

"But what?" I ask when he stalls.

"Why now? Why tonight?" I glance at him, wondering how honest I can be.

"It's… complicated," I hedge.

"Give it a try anyway," he immediately volleys.

"The answer might scare you," I warn lightly, giving him an out.

"Try me," he retorts quickly, with a little salute of his glass. Tipping back his glass, he empties the contents, then sets it on the bedside table, his eyes never leaving me. I follow his lead, then without compunction, pull back the sheet and swing a leg over his lap. Grasping my hips, he eases me down then folds his arms behind his head.

"Well, I suppose," I draw my fingers through the thick matting of hair on his chest, "It's, at least in part, because of the gymnast hooker." He stiffens beneath me.

"Nothing happened between Clarissa and I, Lau-ra," he defends, taking care to succinctly say each word to emphasize his insult, then drawing out my name, his tone matching the scowl of disapproval on his face. I lift my brows at him in rebuttal.

"But it could have," I counter, "And whether I liked it or not, how could I blame you?" I lift a hand and drop it, resignedly. "You're a grown man. You're not going to wait around forever, no man in his right mind would. It made me realize I could either take a chance, cross that line," I nod my head in emphasis, "and see where this takes us," with a hand, I indicate the two of us and the bed, "Or risk waking one day to discover you'd finally come to your senses and had moved on." I blow out a short breath. "I wasn't willing to risk the second because I wouldn't take a chance on the first." He cups my cheek in his hand, and waits for my eyes to meet his.

"I would have waited, Laura." There's a truth in his eyes that is frightening in its intensity.

"Maybe you would have," I concede, "Which takes us to Acapulco." He rears back his head, confused.

" _Acapulco?_ "

"Acapulco," I confirm. "You asked me…

* * *

" _ **How long do I have to keep on proving myself to you? I mean, why is it so important what I was? I mean, we've been together for what could be called a season. Doesn't that count for anything?"**_

* * *

I lean forward and pepper kisses along his jaw as he digests my words. He shakes his head, not understanding.

"Care to clarify?" I sit back up and draw my fingers through his hair, while lifting a pair of brows at him.

"I was a math major, Mr. Steele. It counts." A wide, crooked grin lights his face and before I know what's happened, I'm on my back and he's stretched his long, lean body over mine, supporting his weight on his elbows.

"It counts," he repeats. Thoroughly pleased by the admission, he fingers my hair away from my face, then ducks his head down to suckle on the skin at the base of my neck. My fingers flex against his back, involuntarily, drawing a smug laugh from low in his throat. Well, I know exactly how to stop that laugh.

"Then there's the one irrefutable fact I can't get around no matter how much I may have tried, no matter how much I may resent it at times." My words capture his attention and he lifts his head to stare down at me with a perplexed frown. The slight sting on my neck alerts me he's left his mark on me, and I give some thought to how annoyed I should be.

"What fact?"

"That's the frightening part," I answer elusively. I use a trick I learned in self-defense class long ago and flip him to his back, then settle myself on his hips again. Deciding a bit of tit-for-tat is in order, I bend down and affix my mouth to his collarbone. He squirms slightly beneath me, but says nothing, knowing he's been caught. _Smart man_.

"Lau-ra, what fact?" he repeats, as he splays his hands over my back. I admire my handiwork for a moment then trail kisses up his neck to his jaw.

"Oh, just the little matter that I love you." I say it off-handedly, with a casualness that runs contrary to how I feel and which is contradicted by the sudden, rapid beating of my heart. He sucks in a sharp, deep breath as he stills beneath me, while his fingers contract against my back. I'm not sure if this is good or bad, and am afraid to examine his face to discover the answer, so I duck my head further down and drop kisses beneath his collarbone. Beneath the palm I lay on his chest, I can feel his heart pounding, and prepare myself for the rejection a part of me - a very _large_ part of me – has always feared would come at such at pronouncement.

"I suppose," he begins, trying to match the casual air with which I spoke, "That is a good thing, since I find myself in much the same predicament." I inadvertently clip his chin with the top of my head when I snap it upwards and stare down at him in disbelief. And there it is again: That earnest truth I'd seen in his eyes earlier. I blink several times and wet my lips with the tip of my tongue before I can form a reply.

"I might believe you," I say so softly, I may as well have whispered the words. He's held dumbfounded by my response for a heartbeat, then cracks a sharp laugh. I find myself on my back with him hovering over me again. He reaches between us, and tugs the sash of my robe loose, then spreads it open.

"Then I suppose I'll have to convince you," he retorts with a waggle of his brows, as he draws a pair of fingers down the line of my sternum.

"Do you think you're up to the task?" I take comfort in the familiarity of the banter that has characterized our relationship up until now. The smile that lights his face and eyes is spellbinding.

"You know I'm a man who can't resist a good challenge, Laura," he reminds me, then covers my mouth with his.

That I do, Mr. Steele. That I do.


End file.
